


Biest

by tastesansficker (unofficial_channels)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficial_channels/pseuds/tastesansficker
Summary: Paul's unsuspecting tuft of hair makes for a tasty snack.
Relationships: Christian Lorenz/Flake's Horse
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Biest

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dumb little ditty inspired by Paul's hair/cap in Rosenrot, because it looks like something mistaken for grass. Anyway, this doesn't mean anything, enjoy!

It’s fucking hot - Hamburg summers are no easy feat to live through, especially with record-high heatwaves. This Paul knows from experience. He may not live in the country like Till, but he does know when it’s time to escape brutal cityscape for the solace of water.

Berlin has much to offer him, and it is his second love following his family and his guitar, but there are no such bogs that he seeks. In Hamburg, he has his pick. 

He finds himself at Timmermoor - it’s not technically open to the public, but he can bend a few rules (though he does try to wield his social capital sparingly). Without a second thought, he peels off his clothes and wades in. It’s not very deep, but it’s something. Somewhere off in the distance, Paul swears he can hear someone yelling, but he can’t quite make it out. 

Before anyone can stop him, it’s with a long-winded groan that Paul sinks happily into the quag and feels his body temperature drop. A few low, silly notes escape him in sheer bliss and he rolls over to look down into the water. It’s not very clear, but he blows a few bubbles anyway. He giggles a little at the infancy of it all - after all, no one has ever accused him of being official unofficial band mother - and accidentally chokes. 

When he turns away to breathe, startlingly, beside him is Till, treading deeper bog Paul didn’t realize existed up until now.

“ _Hallo_ , Paul!” Till all but sings. Paul comes to the realization the man is truly the enigma of somehow embodying simultaneously fish and fisherman. None of it actually surprises him, either; face-down in a bog, the universe makes more sense. 

“Till?” he tries to ask, dumbfounded, but his mouth fills with brack. By the time he’s trying to get moss off of his tongue, something dull takes hold of the back of his head and yanks him out of the water. It takes some thrashing and impressive twisting of a man his age to figure out it is indeed a horse’s teeth gnawing on what little hair he has, as if the horse itself had considered his tuft of hair a tasty snack amongst the rest of the reeds and grasses.

The most confusing part of his newfound situation is that its rider is, indeed, Flake. 

“Ow, _fick_ , Flake! Make this beast stop!” he yells between trying to pull his hair free, but the fucker has not a worry in the world. 

Flake agrees with his mount, and moves to do nothing. Dispassionately, he only shrugs and in true Flake fashion he advises, “This is the beast’s way. You’re lucky - it kicked me, first.” But Paul doesn’t feel lucky. He whines when the chomping gets closer to his skull and eventually surrenders himself to the inevitable, supine to the bog...

...And then his eyes open into his hotel room, head a supremely throbbing drum rivaling only Schneider’s set. “ _Scheiße_ ,” Paul croaks, followed by another string of colorful epithets when his sight adjusts enough to present him with the apotheosis of an unmistakable Richard Bender: Richard, unable to even make it onto a mattress, passed out on the floor at the foot of a bed Paul would have gladly shared. He looks no worse for wear, but Paul knows that will quickly change when he does wake. _Dumme_ , the both of them.

Forgetting himself, he giggles and then groans at the immediate consequences it begets, which have him clutching the crown of his head (coincidentally, also the same place Flake’s fucking horse decided to munch on).

Paul, by feel rather than by sight, searches around him for anything to abate his headache when the worst of his immediate pain ebbs away. He’s not usually so kind to himself, so he doesn’t expect anything, but finds himself pleasantly - blessedly - surprised. 

Either in a fugue state or in sober, motherly foresight, someone has graced his nightstand with paractemol - Ollie, if he has to hazard a guess. Bless that man and his distinct lack of hair no animal would ever be able to eat. Paul makes a mental note to thank him when he feels like a human being again. At this rate, it might be a few days.

Not that they’re running short of medication, but if he feels this bad, something tells him Richard will need it more than he. Paul slowly extricates himself from his bed and leaves the bedside care package for Richard, though not before giving it a final, forlorn parting. 

“You’re lucky I love you, Scholle,” he grumbles to the unresponsive sack on the floor that he’s careful to step around. For his trouble he earns a snort followed by a longer snore.

When he ambles downstairs for breakfast - at this point more for Richard than himself, given that the smell is enough to make his stomach turn already - Flake is seated at a table in the lobby, sipping his coffee and gazing pensively out the window like he’d rather be taking a long walk elsewhere. Paul wishes he’d have brought his sunglasses down with him.

It’s with signature preternatural senses that Flake turns to greet Paul before he’s even in eyesight. “ _Guten morgen_ ,” he says, cheerful in the A.M. even with bad hotel coffee. Responsible in his maturity. Paul feels a stab of jealousy alongside the stabbing in his head. At least it’s duller now.

“Yeah,” he replies, lamely, and just barely makes two separate plates with breakfast either he or Richard might manage to digest within the next couple of hours. His lack of morning enthusiasm doesn’t concern Flake, given that at this point in their touring lives, none of them are morning people aside from Lorenz, himself. 

Business as usual.

Unperturbed and hardly paying any attention, he continues to himself, “It’s supposed to be nice in the borough today. It would be the perfect time to ride Biest, if only we were home.”

Were he less hungover, Paul would’ve commiserated over homesickness, but in reality he flashes back to his dream he wishes now he would’ve forgotten - _fucking horses_ \- and groans so loudly that a few other travelers in the lobby proper turn their heads. If they recognize him, no one expresses as much and instead return to their profoundly unsatisfying meals. Flake offers an inquisitive look - one Paul recognizes is borne of courtesy rather than true curiosity - and visibly loses interest in any further explanation.

“Ugh, pass.”

He really is getting too old for this shit.


End file.
